University of Virginia Library

Scæ III.

Britannicus reading, Poppea enters.
Pop.
Musing, and all alone? Syllana, go,
The bottom of my Fate I'le quickly know:
My Virtues are dethron'd, and passions rule;
O Heav'ns! my crimes you have reveng'd at full.

Brit.
It is a truth? or does Fame tell us lyes,
When it reports that the Soul never dyes,
But mantled sits, and acts in gloomy shrouds,
Like Cynthia, when she's hemm'd with circling clouds?
When the soft partner of our griefs and joyes,
With trembling hands shall close our dying eyes,
When in sad sort our friends shall stand and mourn,
To see the Fatal torch those relicts burn,
Is there an end of thought? no farther care?
No throne of bliss, nor caverns of despair?
No dens of darkness, nor no seats of Glory?
Then all our grave discourse is but a story.
Some full-gorg'd Priest, nodding beneath a shade,
Tales of Elizium, and the dull pool, made.
Whither, O whither, go we, when we dye?
Why, there where babes not yet conceiv'd do lie?
Death's nothIng; nothing after death will fall;
Time, and dark Chaos, will devour us all.

Pop.
I come to kill thee, Prince.

Brit.
My Boy is dead;
To Heav'ns bright Throne his brighter Soul is fled:
Yonder he mounts on silver burnish'd wings;
Each God, immortal sweets around him flings.
Now, lkie a ship, he cuts the liquid Sky;
His Rigging's Glorious, and his Mast is high;
Fan'd with cool winds his Golden colours fly.
Ha! wilt thou follow him? begin: strike home.

Pop.
I say, to kill thee (Prince) I hither come.
Thy eyes sharp beams have run quite through my heart,
And I, on thine, will thus revenge the smart.

Brit.
Strike, and by Heav'n I'le kiss thee for the blow:
Be quick; my blood is black, and full of woe:
Do me this welcome dangerous cruelty,
Fair Murdress, if thou art my enemy.

Pop.
Nay, sure you flater'd, when you term'd me fair.

Brit.
If Lillyes, snow, and light, be such, you are.

Pop.
If I am so, this deed would make me foul,
And cast eternal spots upon my soul;
Therefore, thou horrid instrument, be gone:
VVithout thy help, alas, I am undone.
I faint.

Brit.
VVithin my arms I'le hold thee, till
Thy Soul return, and greedy death beguile.
In Rosy gales life through her lips does stream.

Pop.
VVhy did you wake me from this golden dream?
Oh, I am sick!

Brit.
I am contagious, sure;
And all that touch me dye.

Pop.
You are my cure:
'Tis only in your power to make me live.
From those lov'd eyes let me this Balm receive.
Within this circle let me ever grow.

Brit.
Thou charmer, speak; what wouldst thou have me do?

Pop.
Something—why, thus to press your hand, that's all.
Heav'n how he shakes! why do you tremble, Prince?

Cyara's Ghost.
Brit.
Ha! what art thou? thou ayry phantasm, hence.
O, Gods! it is my Boy: what would'st thou have?
How cold he looks, just ris'n from the grave!

Cya.
Go not to bed, but fly that Sorceress arms;
She tempts, like Circe, and has deadly charms.
Think on Cyara, for she lov'd thee well:
Take heed, beware; thou'rt in the Rode to Hell.

Exit.
Brit.
Stay, I conjure thee stay, leave me not thus,
If thou did'st ever love Britannicus.
I'le follow thee along thy Ayay track,
And mount above the clouds to fetch thee back.

Exit.
Enter Sylvana with a Taper.
Silva.
O Heav'ns! How do you, Madam? what success?

Pop.
I'le tell thee, Killing woe, and deep distress.
Thy arm my Girl; I'le shew thee e're we part
Sad things: a troubled mind, and wounded heart.
Ah! for my former peace, what would I give?
My comfort is, this shame I shame I sha'nt survive.
Oh dismal change! nothing is constant found;
The Gods, with whirl-winds, drive our Fortunes round.

Exeunt